Ferrian's Winter

Chapter Three

Death comes swift imprisoned here

The coldness stems from more than fear.

It was not pitch black as Ferrian had first thought. A tiny crack in the high, rocky ceiling let in a faint, golden streamer of sunlight-- just enough for him to make out the walls of the cell he was in.

He lay where he was for awhile, letting his vision adjust, then pushed himself into a sitting position. Where he had been taken to was a mystery, but he had a fair idea who it was that had abducted him.

The Bladeshifters.

He doubted it would have been the Freeroamers: their Guard House surely wouldn't be this rustic and besides, that giant bearded man hadn't been wearing a Freeroamer uniform. There was probably no uniform in Arvanor that would have fitted him.

He swallowed in fear and then winced, becoming acutely aware of his bruised throat where the hessian had cut into it. He rubbed it gingerly. This wasn't the first time he'd been kidnapped. The activity was so common in the Outlands that it was practically a sport. Criminals usually let him go when they discovered that Ferrian had barely a coin to his name and that no one in the world cared about him or would miss him. Sometimes, they tried to kill him, but a mention of his curse and a glimpse of his unnatural silver eyes dissuaded them rather quickly. Not even the most desperate or hardened thief wanted to do anything that would pass a horrifying curse on to them. Ferrian had no idea if the Winter could be passed on, but the lie always worked, in any case.

Not this time, he thought gloomily. The Bladeshifters were fearless in the face of superstition, and even if they did believe him, they'd probably see having a curse as a benefit...

He looked around his newest prison. The floor, walls and ceiling were rocky and uneven, with no furnishings, not even straw. It was little more than a small cave with an iron door set in one wall. Peering closer, he thought he could make out what looked like barrels in the far corner. Perhaps this was a storeroom. Perhaps there was something over there that could be useful...

Getting to his feet, he started towards them, then hesitated. A flash of movement to his right caught his eye. It was something silver and metallic, turning itself over and over rapidly, catching the thin shaft of sunlight.

Ferrian stared at it, half-mesmerised by the strange flickering motion. Then all of a sudden he jumped in shock and stumbled back against the opposite wall.

It was a knife, being twirled in a black-gloved hand.

Now that the shaft of sunlight was out of his direct vision, he could clearly see the silhouette of a man leaning against the wall.

Ferrian went cold. He hadn't even realised that he was there!

"Took you long enough," a voice said from the deep shadows. The figure appeared to take some items out of his pocket and fidget with them for a few moments. Then a match was struck and fire flared, and Ferrian caught a glimpse of the man's face as he lit a wad of rolled up black leaves in his mouth.

He looked surprisingly young, Ferrian thought, perhaps only five or six years older than himself. His hair was short and dark, slicked into messy spikes, with one long bleached lock falling across his eyes. He was of average height and his physique was very lithe and slender, bordering on skinny. He wore black, close-fitting clothes, and his leather jacket was adorned with a remarkable assortment of miscellaneous metallic debris-- broken chains, pendants, badges, rivets and studs, nails, even old clockwork cogwheels.